


Things Worse Than Dying

by nutella22



Series: Forever 2.0 [2]
Category: Forever (TV)
Genre: Angst, Case Fic, Gen, Hurt/Comfort
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-10-07
Updated: 2017-01-25
Packaged: 2018-08-20 02:41:36
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 5
Words: 18,933
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8233219
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/nutella22/pseuds/nutella22
Summary: A homeless man frozen in an alley, a key leading to a stored secret and two Medical Examiners locked in the morgue with a lunatic. This time dying is not an option as it will have consequences that Henry can't live with. Literally as well as metaphorically.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This is a sequel to "What would have to be proved". The idea won't leave me but I have to admit I'm a slow writer. So be warned. I'll try to update as soon as possible but time is scarce and I do have my prioritites. The story won't be beta'd so expect some mistakes and sue me. Or inform me and I'll fix it.
> 
> The characters aren't mine and I will give them back after playing.

Chapter 1

Sunday, 7:28am

It was days like this that Detective Jo Martinez really wished she had put her X in another box at the “Future Day” at High School when being asked what she wanted to be. Being a police officer sucked and being a Barista at the local Starbucks sounded worth considering. At least it would be indoors surrounded by hot coffee.

She had been looking for a quiet Sunday. A long sleep-in, zapping through some TV-shows and having Chinese take-out with chopstick, resulting stains in her PJs and then give up two minutes later only to eat the rest with a fork. Anything but leaving the house.

She got closer to the yellow tape that isolated the crime scene and flashed her police badge to the uniformed officer. He nodded grimly and lifted the tape for her to bend under it.

It was 20 degree below zero, today’s expected maximum temperature and what was worst: She hadn’t even had her coffee yet.

“You’re welcome.” Something was being held under her nose and she found herself face to face with a Styrofoam cup of hot coffee. Starbucks coffee.

“Henry?” She said in surprise as she saw him step up beside her with a simultaneously smug and pitying expression. “So you’re a mind reader, too? I really want to kiss you for that.” Gratefully she took the cup in her gloved hands and only seconds later the heat of the liquid reached the skin of her fingers, causing her to sigh contentedly. “But my lips would freeze to your skin.” She smiled sheepishly at the thought of kissing Henry and cleared her throat. “Anything else I need to know about you? Wearing blue and red latex underwear under your suit and saving the world every other week?”

“No. And that sounds rather uncomfortable.” He sounded confused and not for the first time Jo wondered how the hell Henry was able to monologue with meticulous precision about an anecdote from a hot day in July 1845 when the “current” low-culture left him clueless. Sure, his time perception was different from other people. She didn’t expect anything else. Whose wouldn’t be after 200 years of extended life span but seriously… sometimes she got the impression that he was still living in the past more than in the presence. Maybe one day she would understand what exactly it was that made him tick but it would take a while. And first, she’d actually have to start asking questions out loud which were burning her tongue from the inside.

Because if there was something she had it was questions. It was the courage to ask them that was lacking. The questions sounded already ridiculous when she was thinking about them. Vocalizing them would make them real. Getting the answers… she wasn’t exactly sure whether she was ready to hear them.

She had already been confronted with the fact their medical examiner came back from the dead and the way it looked from the way Henry and Abe dealed with it, it was a somewhat regular occurrence.

_“So, Henry, did you die an interesting death today?”_

_“No, Abe, but here’s the milk you asked for.”_

So, by all means, Jo wasn’t ready for their “death talk”.

She was ready to accept that yes, Henry was an immortal, but the bloody details were something she intended to delay as long as possible. She’d seen him die. Had seen it with her own eyes as his body succumbed to the inevitable and then… he had vanished. And he had come back. Just like that. Wearing a god damn tarp because he always came back naked.

“I prefer my undergarments in white and cotton, if you need to know, Detective,” he answered

She laughed and the air in front of her turned white, her breath looking like exhaust fumes of an old Chevy. “Too much information, Henry.” The two had gotten close enough to the crime scene to address Hanson, who was already waiting, his hands pushed deep into the pockets of his jacket. “So, what have we got?”

“Homeless person, white male, found an hour ago by a lady from the shelter across the street.” He pointed down the alley. “He was being expected by the shelter last night but never got there. She was being interviewed and said that she found him just like that. Didn’t touch or move him and immediately called an ambulance. No ID yet except that he was being called Bill.”

Henry was already squatting next to the man, who was lying on the ground; arms and legs eagle spread like he wanted to create snow angels in the dirty snow. His face was almost hidden under a white scruffy beard and more wrinkles than in an Origami rose. He wore a bobble hat which once had been a dark blue, now a grimy black, covering most of his hair. His long coat was open in the front and revealed a colorful conglomeration of layers over layers of shabby second-hand clothes.

“No visible cause of death. Probably froze to death.” Hanson kept explaining and blew air into his hands, rubbing them against each other to stay warm. “Please, please, let him be frozen to death so we can get to the office and do the paper work,” He added with a hopeful glance at Henry who was busy walking up and down next to the victim, obviously searching for something. After putting on a pair of rubber gloves he took his time checking every inch of the man, stopping and furrowing his brows in confusion as he reached the pockets of his coat. Out of it he produced a tattered wallet and a few bills.

“Sorry, but the man was murdered.” Henry got up, took off the gloves and looked perfectly eager to solve this new puzzle.

Jo managed to suppress a sigh. Hanson did not have that kind of self-control.

“You’re doing this on purpose, Dr. Morgan.” Hanson murmured. “And have you already got a suspect? Jack Frost?”

“No!” Henry replied, then shaking his head. “Well yes, the man did freeze to death but someone helped along.”

“Care to elaborate? Quickly?” Jo said, trying to stop her teeth from clattering.

“Well,” Henry pointed at the dead man’s face. “See the skin irritation in his face? That’s where he was laying face down when he died.”

“Many people die face down on the street,” Hanson stated, not bitter but honestly curious.

“True. But realistically speaking, how many people freeze to death hugging the frozen pavement?” When he was looking into the questioning faces of the two Detectives Henry went on. “When you’re about to freeze to death you are cold. What do you do when you’re cold?”

“I increase the heating.”

“That…” Henry arched an eyebrow.”…was very insensitive, Detective Hanson, considering we’re standing in front of a dead homeless man who did freeze to death on the street in a January night.”

Hanson did have the decency to look chastised. “Sorry, go on, convince me.”

“When you’re about to freeze to death you find yourself a corner, something to keep off the cold a little. And you huddle, put your arms around your torso. It’s instinctual behavior which is why freezing victims are usually being found in fetus position. This man was probably unconscious before he started feeling cold as he wasn’t even wearing his gloves.” Henry pointed at the left pocket of the dead man where the furry cuffs of comfy looking gloves were visible. “Secondly, he crawled.” Henry walked a few feet and pointed at the floor. “You can clearly see the imprints of his knees as well as his hands, which is supported by the dirt on his knees and hands.”

Hanson and Jo followed his referenced details. It was true, the dead man’s knees and hands were crusted with frozen dirt and snow.

“Maybe he’d had a heart attack?” Jo added but even before finishing the sentence she could see that Henry would disagree.

“Heart attack victims don’t crawl. They collapse where they stand, hands and arms pressed against the chest, especially in case of a fatal heart attack as this would’ve been the case.” He sighed. “No, this man was afraid and physically unable to walk anymore. He collapsed and either died or lost consciousness with his cheek pressed against the ground.” He pointed at the mild scratches that showed on the man’s right cheekbone which wasn’t covered by his messy beard. “His last effort was to crawl towards the shelter.” At this Henry pointed to the homeless shelter which was in clear eye shot.

“But why would anyone kill a homeless person if it wasn’t for the money? Which wouldn’t exactly be like hitting the jackpot anyway,” Jo asked skeptically.

“I know, in most criminal incidents money is the motive but there’s so much more than monetary values.”

“Revenge, religious obsession, women, jealousy,” Jo replied, strangely eager to proof that her brain was not yet affected by the temperatures.

“Exactly,” Henry acknowledged. “Someone rolled him on his back after he was out cold – no pun intended – and went through his stuff.” Henry kneeled back down and pointed at the torso. “His coat was being opened and the first buttons of his outer shirt are ripped off, as if someone was in a hurry to get something that was closer to his body than the wallet.”

He got back up and pulled the rubber gloves of his fingers, before clapping his hands in eager anticipation. “I can probably tell you more when I have him on the table.”

Jo rolled her eyes. Not so hot coffee anymore aside, this Sunday officially sucked.

***  
Sunday, 11:35am

It was already close to lunch time when Jo and Hanson took the elevator down to Henry’s dungeon, as Hanson had titled it quite lovingly and it didn’t surprise them to find the premises empty except for Henry and Lucas, both men standing bent over the body, which was covered neck to toes with white linen. Henry had obviously finished his autopsy.

Without the hustling and bustling of a normal weekday the basement was much creepier than usual. At least on the 1st floor there was a formally required skeleton crew but even the criminals were hibernating in the winter and most of her present colleagues were doing past due paperwork or doing bets on “Who can stack the trash the highest”.

After spending the rest of the morning talking to the staff of the homeless shelter their victim had frequented - which by the way had worse living conditions than Alcatraz – they were glad to escape the depressing circumstances. The woman who had found him couldn’t give much more details then his already known name, Bill, and the fact that he spent most of the days on the streets and only coming to the shelter when the temperatures outside were too low to provide safe sleeping conditions. Over the last few weeks, of course, that had mostly been the case. She had found him after looking for him in his usual spaces.

According to her, he’d had no friends, no known family and no job. Nothing to connect him with anything besides empty bottles of cheap alcohol and a bed in a shelter that was now already someone else’s refuge.

“Please tell me you got something,” Jo greeted straightforwardly as her gaze traveled to the face of the man. Without the hat he looked even older. A few strands of grey, stringy hair lay matted against a balding head and the blotches and skin irritation stood out in the ashen face. She stood close enough to smell the evidence of the dead man’s questionable personal hygiene. No showers, no clean laundry and the ever constant closeness to New York darkest alleys had not just left traces on his esthetics. The stench was subtle enough after a thorough wash but nasty enough to have her wrinkle her nose in mild disgust.

Lucas was just spreading a white sheet over the surprisingly massive corpse. How could a man living of one warm soup a day have the corporal properties of a boxer in training was incomprehensible.

“Oh, hi, Detective…” Lucas peered past Jo at Hanson and added a very long “…s.” He smiled lopsidedly and pulled the sheet yet a little higher, covering the hairy breast and the y-shaped incision they had used to open him up. “We have coffee and some Twinkies. But…” One look at her face and he flinched losing his smile. Not entirely though. “I guess you mean the autopsy, right?”

“You are a smart one, aren’t you?” She raised her eyebrows, crossed her arms in front of her chest and was this close to tapping her foot on the floor. Mostly of course because her feet were cold but she certainly wouldn’t let him know that.

“Fell asleep and did not wake up, so to speak.” Henry exclaimed loudly, coming from out of his office and his gaze fixed on the dead. “All things considered this man did have a very peaceful death. No pain, no physical detriments except for some older scars. Knife wound in the back, close to the kidney, at least 20 years old as well as an old bullet wound in his left femoral. Otherwise not even the sniffles.”

“Didn’t do him much good,” Hanson said drily.

“The only things we found on him were a few old pictures, some coins, bubble gum wrap – lemon flavor – and dog tags with a single key on a chain,” Lucas added and spread the objects on another unused table. Carefully, Jo took the pictures and held them up. The first showed three young men, naked chests and army pants, all of them smiling into a camera although the conditions under which the photograph was taken didn’t exactly indicate happy camping. A large chopper and a few tents were situated next to a jungle-like background. The other’s showed similar situations.

“Vietnam?” Jo asked and gave the picture to Hansson.

“Apparently. The dog tags identify him as T.B. Walner, 9. Division, Infantry. Stationed at Vietnam in the early 70s.”

“War veteran,” Jo said and took another look at the man, who probably had many stories to tell. Had Henry been to Vietnam too? She would have to remember adding the question to her current list and glanced up at Henry, their eyes met and what she saw was nothing but a busy detachment from the misery around him. How had he managed to stay sane after 200 years of death and destruction? Because if there was one thing she had learned about Henry’s life so far was that it had been anything but a picnic.

“We do have a name now. That’s something.” Hanson nodded and took the dog tags in one hand. The key clinked against them. “What about the key?”

“There’s a four-digit number on it,” Henry replied. “Might be the key to some public storage like safe deposit boxes at the airport or the train station.”

Jo nodded. “We will find out where the key belongs to. It might give us an explanation on the MO.”

“Thanks, Henry,” she managed an up-lifting smile and put the evidence back into the box. “We’ll take that. What about the cause of death?”

“His last meal consisted of pumpkin soup spiced with a large amount of Lorazepam. It wouldn’t have killed him but it was enough to sedate him. The effect was slow enough to only have him realize that something was wrong when it was already too late. If he had been found and brought in somewhere warm it’s possible he just could have slept it off without any lasting effects.”

“So the murder wasn’t exactly deliberate.”

“I highly doubt it if it weren’t for the circumstances. Freezing temperatures aside, this man would have been back on his feet after a long sleep and a hot cup of coffee.”

“Thanks Henry,” Jo said. Next to the ME his young assistant coughed into his fist and Jo rolled her eyes, not without amusement “… and Lucas.” She added quickly.

“It happens to be a fact that I _do_ have better things to do on a Sunday, you know,” The young man complained but didn’t sound overly unhappy about the “disturbance”. Seriously, how many action figures could he possibly sort on a Sunday?

“If you find out anything else…” Jo indicated and nodded at Henry. Accompanied by Mike she headed through the glass door that led into the hallway, moving towards the elevator.

“So, what do you think?” Mike asked while keeping an eye on the floor numbers in which the cabin was stationed. It was on its way down from the top floor and was momentarily halting at their destination and Jo shivered, the coldness of the day as well as her sterile surroundings making her uncomfortable. She needed to get out of here and preferably somewhere warmer. Haiti sounded nice. Since that was out of question maybe physical exercise would help her get warm.

“Let’s take the stairs,” she decided and without waiting for Hanson’s response she pulled open the heavy door that led to the staircase, her partner close on her heels.

It was a decision she would soon regret.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> See part 1.

Chapter 2

Sunday, 12:24pm

The moment she realized something was wrong was not accompanied by sirens and gunshots. Not even screams or sounds of destruction and chaos. Far from it. The Trojan horse had long crossed the city gate.

It was quiet at the station as most of her few colleagues had gone out, hidden under ludicrous amounts of woolen shawls, hats and muffs to find something for lunch that wouldn’t freeze to their tongue. Hanson was sitting across from her on his own desk, feet on the edge of the table and speaking with an irritated tone to the person on the other side of the conversation.

It was only his second call but Jo feared already that it would take a while as today was obviously the “Let’s assume the call from the nice Detective is a prank call anyway”-day.

“No, I don’t want to know whether you _do_ have safe deposit boxes because I know there are. I need you to tell me whether the locks to your storages boxes fit the description. The serial number on the- … No, I will definitely _not_  come back tomorrow during office hours!” He almost yelled into the phone and his chair tilted dangerously. Jo smirked and Hanson sat up, leaning forward on his chair and actually pointed his finger at the receiver as if it was the nose of his dialog partner. “Look lady, this is _not_ a prank call, I can assure you! I am a Detective with the NYPD and this is a murder investigation. Do you want me to spell it for you?…”

Someone entered the station and Jo looked up to find Abe standing at the entrance, stomping his boot-clad feet on the carpet to shake off dirty snow and pulling his furry hat from his head.

“Abe,” she got up, honestly pleased by his arrival and walked over to him. “What are you doing here?”

The old man smiled warmly at her and she felt her stomach knot at the absurd fact that this was Henry’s son. His old and wrinkly son who was born before World War II had even ended.

“Jo,” he greeted her and looked around. “I’ve tried calling Henry but he didn’t answer the phone. I,” he looked around at the empty bullpen. “I wanted to know if it would be okay if we could get lunch together. There’s this new French Restaurant just two blocks away he wanted to give a try for ages.”

“Oh, I’m sure he can find a few minutes. He should be done by now. Come on, I’ll get you downstairs.” She took him by the arms and steered him towards the elevator when she passed the tech room and stopped in her tracks. An unknown sound came from behind the door, a steady beep, muffled by the usually open doors. But now, probably to spare heating the doors were closed. Jo looked through the blinds which weren’t completely blocking her view.

“Hanson?” She called into the quiet precinct and Hanson – busy ranting about the incompetence of the regional traffic bureau – looked up. “Hanson, come over for a second, would you?”

She pushed the door open, frowning, and went in.

The tech room contained a number of screens, each of them connected to numerous security cams installed within and in close vicinity of the precinct. The screens were turned off but it wasn’t security footage that had caught Jo’s attention but a red light on one of the panels that was blinking in the very same rhythm as the warning tone.

“What is that?” Jo asked no one in particular.

“That’s…” Hanson’s head appeared in the door and had obviously heard her. His frown mirrored the one on his partners face. “That sounds like the alarm signal triggered in case of biological alarm.”

“Biological alarm? Like the bird flu?” Abe jumped in, not quite sure what this was all about.

Questioningly, Jo looked at her partner, not quite grasping the fact.

“As long as I’ve been working here it had never been activated,” Hanson explained and entered the room with a frown. Sitting down on the chair in front of the rows of screens Jo switched a button for the power supply and the screens flickered to life, showing various rooms and perspectives of the building, inside as well as outside. The scene changed every few seconds, jumping from one camera to the next.

“Any idea how such an alarm can be activated?” Jo asked, still concentrating intently on the controls and swearing mildly when the view stuck to the camera down in the garage. “And where the hell is the camera for Henrys office?”

 “As far as I know it can only be activated directly in the morgue. So it must have been either Lucas or Henry who triggered it,” Hanson said and tipped Jo on the shoulder. “Let me…,” Quickly, she got up, knowing that he was much more acquainted with the handling of the technical equipment. His fingers scampered over the keys and he looked up at the outer left screen, his face falling with confusion and shock. “What the…”

The screen showed the morgue. Visible within the camera’s range were four men of which one definitely didn’t belong here. First, the body on the table. Then there was Lucas, sitting on the floor in the remote corner, legs stretched out under him and his head lolled to the side. Unconscious… or something else Jo didn’t want to think about. The left side of his neck was as one could see in spite of the distance covered with blood. Henry looked unharmed and was standing in front of him in a strategically protecting position, the table with the dead body between him and yet another man whom they didn’t recognize. He was standing with his back to the camera next to the victim and in his left hand was yielding a scalpel, probably taken from the tray that was positioned next to the autopsy table.

“Who is this guy? And…” Hanson leaned closer to the screen, taking a closer look at Lucas. “Is that blood?”

“We need to get down there,” Jo said and was already halfway down the hallway before Hanson caught up with her.

“No, Jo, wait! There’s nothing we can do right now.”

She pushed the button for the elevator and seemed to think twice before she headed towards the staircase, when the doors did not immediately slid open.

 

“What do you mean _Nothing we can do_? We are cops. This is a police station. And someone obviously attacked our Medical Examiners right under our noses. We can do a lot. At first we need to get them out of there.”

Two, three steps in a row.

“No, I mean, we can’t get in.” Hanson sounded out of breath. “Think about it, Jo. What’s going to happen when we storm down there and startle this guy who’s holding Henry at knife point?”

 _Well, he’s probably not going to be able to kill him… Well, for long at least._ She thought but stopped anyway when Hanson grabbed her arm.

“Jo, we can’t get _in_! The biological alarm was triggered which means the morgue is hermetically sealed. Seriously, what do you think is going to happen when you storm down there with a gun when there’s still a bullet-proof wall between us and Dr. Morgan with an armed guy?”

Jo finally stopped in her tracks, her hand inches away from the door latch. “Then we need someone with a– a key or something.”

“Jo, we need to make calls first. We need to get our shit together. This is bigger than us.” His leaned closer, his voice now an intense whisper and suddenly Jo was happy that Mike was here and still thinking straight. “We need back-up. Also, we can’t just override the safety controls for biological alarms. That’s CDC’s territory. They’re the only ones with the security codes to lift the seal.”

Jo visibly deflated, leaned against the door and tried to calm down. She took a deep breath and pushed her hair out of her face, flattening it against the top of her head. “You’re right. Reece first. And we somehow need to get in contact with Henry. And the CDC. Ambulance too.” She added as an afterthought and nodded her head into the general direction of the morgue. “And we need to find out who this guy is.”

“Yeah,” Hanson nodded and Jo pulled away from the door. Throwing one last glance at the closed door to the hallway she followed her partner back up into the precinct where Abe was waiting. “I’ll get on with the phone calls,” Hanson exclaimed matter-of-factly and walked straight to his desk.

“Abe,” Jo mentioned for the older man to follow her to the tech. “You said you tried to call him. Did you call him in the office?”

“Uuh, yes,” Abe replied and nervously kneaded his furry hat in his hands, hurrying to keep up with the Detective as she strode towards her desk. “What is going on here?”

“We don’t know yet but we’re going to find out.” A task. A mission. She could do that. Even if it was just a phone call. They walked back into the tech-room and after a quick look at the screen showing the morgue she saw with a certain relief that the scene hadn’t changed. Yet.

Henry, his hands still raised up to his shoulder was talking, his face a nervous mask of suppressed anger and intense frustration. It was only now that she found him looking at the camera for the blink of an eye. He did it again, a little longer now and the knot in her stomach tightened as she realized that she had no idea how long he was trying to get their attention. When had the guy managed to sneak in? Distantly her memory replayed the moment when she and Hanson had taken the stairs up to the precinct about half an hour ago. Hadn’t there been the swooshing sound of the elevator doors closing? Had they missed the intruder by seconds? If they had taken the elevator instead, they would have met him, could have stopped him. His looks would have made them suspicious, no doubt, and they would have asked him where he was going.

With mildly shaking fingers she typed in the four-digit number for Henrys office. A look at the screen gave her the confirmation that the phone was indeed ringing and Henry could hear it. His monitor ego turned around, took a quick look at his office and said something to the intruder, gesturing behind his back. The stranger shook his head violently, walked up and down, back and forth. Aimlessly. His hands kept holding his head and Jo had the macabre thought that he’d gouge his own eyes out sooner or later.

She took a few seconds to observe the man. Another homeless from the looks of it. A woolen hat, a jacket the was too short for his gangly limbs as the sleeves didn’t even reach his wrists. Under it, he wore a knitted cardigan that looked more like a skirt from Jo’s perspective. Shabby jeans completed the jumbled style. When he moved towards the camera at ceiling height his face was mostly hidden behind hair that stuck out from under the hat. The only thing discernible in his gaunt face was a large nose.

What was he doing down there and what was he looking for? The way he kept prancing the room only to come to a halt next to the body, staring at it, it was clear he had known the victim, was maybe even responsible for his death. But then why would he come here? Ignoring Abe, she strode towards the box that contained the meager belongings of the victim and looked through it again. Nothing of value except for the key. The key that probably locked something the intruder was willing to kill for.

And now Henry and Lucas were alone with him.

“Hanson, we need to know about this key,” She stressed and Hanson, talking on the phone with their boss, looked up. He nodded his understanding.

 

ooo

 

During the last 200 years of his life Henry Morgan had been in a lot of dangerous and compromising situations and could write whole books about it. _Did_  write books about it, actually. He’d had a lot of time to go through all of them or at least most of them but he did make the experience that hostage situations were the worst. Besides worrying about dying another painful, inconvenient and absolutely avoidable death he now had to worry about being watched and recorded on glorious digital hardware while doing so.

Screw technical advance.

Maybe Lucas being out cold was doing him a favor in this situation though he dared to assume that the young man would say otherwise.

And so, ironically enough, it was the camera that was making him worry the most as it mercilessly recorded everything that happened in this room. Potential death and vanishing acts included.

Sitting on his desk with his back to the door he had heard Lucas yelling a high-pitched sound of surprise – one that, given the opportunity, Henry would love to tease he young man with once they had managed to survive this disaster -  followed by a loud thump, breaking glass and a body falling.

The first thing he had noted after rushing back into the morgue was Lucas’ still body, lying prone on the floor with his legs spread before him and head lolling to his side and blood running down his neck, indicating a bleeding wound at the back of his head.

Above him on the wall the glazed box with the emergency button within was splintered, some shards still hanging on a few threads. The rotating flashing beacon next to it silently announced trouble that Henry so far only had read about in the

morgue emergency plan. He knew what it meant: automatically sealed doors, windows and ventilation system. And no way to get out of here without a tremendous effort by bureaucratic pencil pushers and a critical amount of time. Time that Lucas might not have. Time that bore the risk of exposure for Henry. Exposure to a scalpel-yielding crazy man, a rolling camera and in its wake impending footage that might change the world as well as shatter his.

Instinctively Henry backed away, lifting his arms in a non-threatening gesture.

“Where is it? Where is the list?” The stranger wanted to know and Henry would’ve loved to roll his eyes but managed to refrain from it. Why couldn’t anything go by the books just for once?

 

ooo

 

It was a rare occurrence that Abraham Morgan felt out of place. After all, he was no pimpled adolescent anymore who was looking for a place in the world. He was Abraham Morgan, established business-man, soldier-man, self-made man and – not to forget – ladies-man. He was 70 years old for heaven’s sake. He hadn’t felt that out of place since prom night when Maria Dolores had stood him up to dance with dimwitted George Bassket.

He coughed in his hat and tried to restrain his fingers from kneading his hat. His knuckles already hurt from the constant tension. There was something going on and Abraham was anything but stupid. He’d seen enough to know that his father as well as his young assistant Lucas were in trouble.

He stood quietly, watching over Jo’s back at the screen. The resolution was good enough that he could read his father’s face. He seemed calm, self-conscious and for the untrained eye steady as a rock. After all, he had nothing to fear besides taxes.

But Abe knew he was worried. Worried about the hurt young man that he surely felt responsible for. Because his father felt responsible for everyone. After all everyone was mortal and had much more to lose than his father. On the other hand, his father had things to gain no one else could possibly want to experience. Starting with a never-ending story of life and loss and more losses up to a close acquaintance with Death that was so utterly bittersweet in its reliability that his father thought about it more like a curse than a gift. A very painful one at that… both metaphorically and literally.

And the cramping in his stomach as well as the look out the window at the cold, frozen world told Abraham that this time dying was not an option due to outer circumstances that he wasn’t sure his father was aware of.

“Detective…! Jo…” He tried to get the Detectives attention as she was speaking on the phone. Sounded like she was trying to get information on who was able to lift the seal of the morgue. According to her agitation it was more complicated than it sounded. Their eyes met and she held her hand up in “wait a second” gesture.

“When can he be here?” She asked into the phone, nodding while she listened, then scribbled something in the notebook.

“Thanks.” Putting down the device she turned towards Abe and gave him a small smile that was probably supposed to calm him. “Abe, we’re doing our best to get Henry out of there.”

“I know, I know,” He replied hastily. “I don’t doubt your ability to handle the situation and the last thing on my mind is to complicate matters but…” His eyes found his father’s figure on the screen, hands still stretched out to the sides, just below his shoulders, appearing non-threatening and calm. The attacker was walking nervously around the morgue. A caged tiger about to attack his prey. A tragedy in one act. “Jo…” He swallowed and Jo narrowed her eyes looking worried.

“Abe, everything’s going to be alright.” She touched his shoulder slightly. A friendly attempt to calm his nerves. He didn’t feel it through his three layers of clothes. On the contrary. Goosebumps traveled over his skin, crawling along his spine and the sensation of an icy breeze on his neck made him shudder involuntarily. She lowered her voice. “I know what you’re worried about.” A quick glance at the monitors and he knew what she meant. “We’re going to deal with that when it comes to that.”

Abraham huffed. “That’s Henry’s least problem, I’d think.”

“Then what…?”

Abraham swallowed. “The lake. It’s frozen, Jo. There’s no coming through. Not even shipping traffic. If Henry dies in there…” he pointed at the monitor. “If he dies in there, there will be many deaths to follow. I’m not sure he will be able to survive this emotionally speaking.”

Jo’s face paled as she became aware of the implications.

“You mean…?” Her nostrils flared as she asked, her voice strained. “Is Henry aware of that?”

“I’m not sure.” Abraham answered truthfully. “I…I just don’t know.”


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm not going to try to excuse the delay. I'm a busy woman. :-) But here we (finally) go.
> 
> Oh and sorry about another cliffhanger. 
> 
> They just happen...bitches.

Chapter 3

 

Sunday, 1:55PM

Being locked in a room with a lunatic wasn’t something Henry had anticipated getting up this morning. Neither had he anticipated being responsible not just for his own illusion of normalcy but also the well-being of a subordinate who was sitting on the floor knocked out cold with a bleeding head wound.

So yes, he was a little worried. It wasn’t everyday that your secret was in concrete danger to be revealed to the world like proof for Aliens on a silver plate.

The clock over the entrance to the morgue was ticking away happily while the tension inside this room was almost palpable. And that wasn’t purely the result of the blocked ventilation that made the air in their prison staler and staler. Not enough to lead to suffocation anytime soon but enough that Henry could have sworn he already felt the difference.

Usually the morgue was a/c’d  to a steady temperature of 16,7 degree Celsius to avoid too quick decomposition while still allowing the Medical Examiner to work in a more or less habitable climate. With the shut-down of the a/c the formidable insulation of the basement was showing and the rising of the temperature would soon intensify the smell of the body.

 _If only the smell were my only problem_ , Henry thought ironically recapitulating the last hour for the umpteenth time hoping to think of something that would help him.

The man had stormed in, knocked out Lucas, threatened Henry with the scalpel and kept creeping around the room, checking out the walls and glass doors before turning back to the table to stare at the dead body.

Rinse, repeat. Except for the knocking out Lucas part.

Henry had chosen the strategically best way to stay out the crazy mans way and had taken place next to his fallen assistant, sitting on the floor and trying to look as little intimidating as possible. Which wasn’t that hard as he _was_ scared – for himself as well as for Lucas – and without any other option.

The stranger was looking for something, that much was clear. After getting a few good looks at him Henry at least was able to decipher some facts. He was obviously another homeless. A very confused one at that. That much was easy. His attire was similar to the vic’s. Several layers of run-down clothes, wildly combined. Two different shoes, causing him to hobble slightly. His face showed deep lines and he had a bad overbite that didn’t look natural. Probably the remainder of a badly treated fracture of both jaw bones. He had worn a hat which he at one point had taken off to rub over his face constantly as if to clear his eyes. Not a gesture of physical necessity but a quirk nursed by many years of unhealthy use of substances that weren’t available at the grocery, mental instability and a life specked with more devastating milestones than existing moon craters. If Henry had to live a life like that – no matter how short – death would’ve sounded even more like a good friend to take you when you had nowhere else to go.

Eyes that were lying deep in its sockets, dry and bloody lips, a nose that looked too large for the haggard face. Henry estimated the man to be in his early 70’s. But there was a restlessness, an agitation in him that made him seem more energetic than his bodily status allowed.

The man kept mumbling in his non-existent beard while roaming the room. Henry tried to listen closely to the erratic monologue but most information came from jumbled memories of Vietnam or the insubstantial replay of random situations out of the past. Names and numbers were thrown in the mix; Foreign places that Henry didn’t recognize. A few times it sounded like he was talking directly to the dead man, other times he stared at random corners of the room, yelling like he could see someone standing over there, having full conversations with invisible people about every day topics. Food. Magazines. Women.

A lot of information but too random for Henry to form a concrete picture. At least nothing that could pinpoint why they were here, in this particular situation. Most of the time Henry doubted the man knew that there was someone with him in the room. But he did learn enough from the mumbling, shuffling and gesturing that he could paint himself his own picture.

The vic and the stranger had once been friends, brothers in arms in Vietnam and Henry knew what war could do to people. In this respect Vietnam was special in its own, gruesome ways. It wasn’t just the blood and the death that had broken the men. It was the fact that they were still alive after being in constant fear for the very same. The fact that the danger didn’t solely lie in bullets or explosions or enemy territory but in the sole expectation of it all. All the time. It was his own son who had been one of them and even though he had come back unharmed he was still broken enough to suffer the consequences. Henry had been there for him, had managed to mend the pieces and scrape the remains of his son’s mental health back without digging too deep in memories that were better left buried.

Abe had never initiated a talk about his time in Vietnam and Henry knew when to step back and hope for the best. Never did he question his sons alienation from this chapter of life, had never asked about the experiences that Abe found too awful to retell and therefore relive. And from what Henry could tell there were a lot of those that were merely scratched during many hours of chess and good wine and careful prodding.

But history did statistically speak a harsher language when it came to long-term consequences caused by the pressure ‘Nam had initiated. A whole generation of young men broken to the point that supporting them was too much to ask for from a glorified power such as the United States. A failed system of giving and taking and more taking.

Yes, Henry recognized a PTSD afflicted veteran when he saw one. Even more when the very angry and confused veteran kept waving his own scalpel in front of his nose.

“So…” Henry cleared his throat, trying once more to get the man’s attention. Trying to get him speak, to have his attention. “What does T.B. stand for?”

It took a few long seconds, long enough that Henry was about to repeat the question but to his own surprise he got a straight answer.

“Teddy,” the man said hoarsely and it was the first time that his voice was clear and loud. “His name was Teddy.” He spit the name more than he pronounced it.

It was a start nonetheless and Henry hoped he wouldn’t lose him so soon by nudging carefully. “May I assume that you didn’t actually like him?”

“Teddy was a great man. Great, great yes. A great guy. Saved my sorry ass,” The man muttered, this eyes flickering from one side to the other as if he didn’t really realized where he was. “Where is the list?”

Okay, so they were back to square one. What kind of a list? Henry really hoped Jo and Hanson were doing something useful while he was sitting ducks on the floor, getting cramps in his backside and fishing in troubled water.

“What list?” He asked, making his voice loud and clear. He knew from experience with PTSD victims that it was possible to get them out of an episode by having their attention on something else, something steady. The ticking of a clock, the swinging of a pendulum or the calming sound of a voice. Something concrete and stable. Non-threatening. “What was on the list, can you tell me that?”

“No, no, no,” the man muttered and grabbed for the sides of the table in front of him, his right hand still clamped around the scalpel. Henry could see the tremors of his hands as the left one grasped past the edge, causing the old man to stagger with a cry of anguish. Almost toppling over he managed to get his balance back and moaned pitifully.

And suddenly things were getting clearer. The man’s symptoms –  besides screaming PTSD – pointed to the murder weapon: dizziness, confusion, hand tremors and a panic attack that led to storming the morgue and attacking Lucas. The man had obviously used his own medication Lorazepam to knock out T.B. Walner and was now suffering from withdrawal as he had wasted the pills on a homicide. But what was important enough to risk his own health and sanity?

Danger forgotten Henry got up, bracing himself on the wall and rounded the table, reaching his arms out to help the man get his footings. He was a Doctor after all. Even though he cut the dead open it was the living he was it doing for. Well, and because everyone had to die except for him. Which in itself was a motivator: to know everything death had to offer.

“Don’t touch me!” the man roared suddenly and Henry stepped back, lifting his arms back into a non-threatening gesture that he was slowly but surely getting tired of. This was getting ridiculous. He needed a plan. He needed to do something to get himself and Lucas out of this situation without drastic measures. Never having been a man of violence there wasn’t much left but words and the hope to get some sense into the disoriented perp.

“I’m sorry. I’m sorry. Please, just…” Henry swallowed hard. “I’m sorry. Okay, maybe we can just talk about it. Let’s find out together where the list is, okay?”

The man nodded jerkily and wiped his nose on his dingy sleeve, acting not unlike a little child that expected to be comforted after being scolded for stealing cookies. Another groan and a pained moan from another source and Henry met the eyes of a confused but very much awake assistant.

“What the…” the young man moaned again and his hand met the back of his head. “Wow, I wouldn’t have expected it to hurt so much,” Lucas mumbled, sounding more awed than confused. Henry suppressed rolling his eyes. This young man had the timing of a stomach flu.

“Nice of you to join us, Mr. Wahl,” Henry said without taking his eyes of the stranger, hoping that Lucas was lucid enough to assess the situation quickly and without causing more excitement than necessary.

“Can’t say it’s my pleasure,” Lucas merely said, his eyes growing wide as he realized the mess he was in. “Doctor Morgan?”, he addressed his boss more formally than usual, asking without words for an explanation, which Henry neither had the time nor the nerve for. So he decided to ignore it for the time being.

“How’s the head?” Henry asked, still watching the other man, who had retreated into his shell of stammering confusion.

“Still attached.”

“That’s good.”

“Says the man with a head without an extra air vent,” Lucas grouched and hissed in pain as he carefully prodded his injured scalp. “What’s his deal?” he lowered his voice and kept his eyes on his attacker. Then his brows furrowed. “And where’s the cavalry? How long was I out?” Followed by a whispered “I always wanted to ask this in real life” and a crooked grin that was quickly dampened by a hiss.

For a moment Henry pondered over the “real life” remark before he gave an almost imperceptible sigh. “I can see the blow against your head did not impair you in any way that I should concern myself with.”

“Who… is this?” the old man grunted and for a moment Henry had no idea what he was talking about. “Who are you!” The old man repeated and started to round the table to look at Lucas as if he was seeing him for the first time.

 _Impaired memory,_ Henry pondered, his brow furrowing even further when he watched the man press his hand first against his temples, then his chest as if he was trying to rub a constant pain away.

“Sir, you really should…” he started but was cut short by the nervous twitching of the scalpel dancing in front of him like an epileptic puppet on strings. He took a step back, hoping to draw the attention to himself and at the same time get some more space between himself and the sharp instrument that now seemed to have developed a life of its own. Like it was the old man who was attached to it not the other way around. “You really need to calm yourself. You’re suffering from withdrawal symptoms caused by…”

“I don’t suffer ANYTHING!” A jab from the knife, spit running from the old man’s lips and Henry backed away even further, trying to tell his younger assistant to stay away by a meaningful look. “Don’t you talk to me like you know what I’ve been through. They know who you are. They know. Because they’re _on_ the list. They _tell_ me.” A quick look at the dead body. “You have the list. Now give it to me!”

“I assure you that we’re going to…” Behind him the instruments rattled loudly, glass vials clanking dangerously and the stack of paper towels swayed dangerously as Henrys back hit the cabinet with his back.

The man formed another soundless word before pressing his right hand against the left side of his torso again. Then, a jerk went through his stature and he stumbled forwards, trying to hold onto the side of the table. The tablet with incomplete set of instruments flew on the ground, the shining equipment flying everywhere.  Again, Henrys sense of self-preservation was overrode by the worry for another human soul as he reached out, trying to keep the man from falling over and he sagged under the sudden weight, grunting with the effort.

“Don’t touch me!” the other man yelled and quickly regained his balance. Henry felt a strong push against his torso and a sharp but strangely subdued pain just below his ribcage, then - unable to keep his balance - he fell backwards and with a sound of stunned surprise found himself sitting on the floor with his back against the cold tiles of the wall.

He heard Lucas yell “Doctor Morgan!” and the young man came scrambling towards him, his eyes not on his face but his upper body, where a mildly stinging sensation made him apprehensive to look down. When he did, the small red dot that was getting bigger by the second made him regret it immediately.

 

oOoOo

 

Sunday, 2:41PM

The colleague from the CDC wasn’t happy to be here. He was a thin man with slim styled clothes that still looked too big on his frame. The only things not hidden under multiple layers of clothes were his high cheekbones and deep set eyes that were of such an unsettling watery blue color that they looked almost white. The bones in his fingers pressed painfully against her joints as Jo shook his hands after his arrival. With clattering teeth he had mumbled some unintelligible syllables into a woolen shawl which was being wrapped around his neck and almost up to his eyes.

After having been given a quick update on the situation and an affirmation that No, there really was medically speaking no explicit reason for having to keep up the quarantine he had asked for access to the internal network passwords and had gone to work without even taking off his clothes. His gloved fingers jumped over the keyboard, then paused as he flashed an annoyed glance over his shoulder at Jo, who was standing at his side, watching impatiently for him to finish his job so she could do hers.

“Look lady,” he complained. “This is no trivial Hello World program I’m implementing here. There’s some really mean coding I have to overrun and little time to do so. There’s more freaking subroutines in there than breakpoints in a debugging procedure. I’d appreciate more space and less hovering. Thanks.” He turned back towards the screen and Jo realized he hadn’t even stopped typing during the rebuke.

“Oh… okay,” she replied, irritated, and suppressed another question of “How long”, which he’d answered her with a stern “as long as it takes” already – twice. “I’ll be…” She was about to step aside when she saw Hanson come running through the bullpen towards her.

He had left almost an hour before after a promising call to Pennsylvania Station. Her hope surged as she wondered whether maybe he’d shed some light onto their mysterious list after all.

“Found something?” she yelled across the office and walked in his direction.

Hanson, walking purposefully towards the tech room, held up his right hand in which Jo could see a small leathery notebook, worn around the edges with blotchy stains on the cover and ignored her question completely.  “Where’s Mr. Morgan? He still in the tech room?”

“Abe, yes. Why?” She asked, now even more confused. Why was everyone so damn irritating? “What’s going on?”

“We found a notebook with a list of names. Among others, his name is on it.”

 _What?_ “What?”

They met, never stopping in their stride, and kept walking on towards the open door of the tech room.

“The name “Abraham Morgan”. On a list with a bunch of other names.”

“Why?”

“That’s what we should ask Mr. Morgan.” Hanson’s face was dark with tension when he reached the room with the numerous screens.

The old man was sitting in a chair – exactly where Jo had seen him since the whole ordeal had started – anxiously bouncing his legs while he kept wiping his hat over his eyes then went back to kneading it furiously.

“Jo?” His head shot up and with a small groan he stood up, as if his bones were as tired as Jo felt. “What’s going on?”

 "I was hoping you could tell us,” she replied and her head went back and forth between Henry’s son and her partner.

“The key we found with the vic led to a storage depot at Pennsylvania Station.” Hanson explained. “There was an old notebook inside as well as a bundle of seemingly untouched money. Lots of money for a homeless.”

“How much are we talking about?” Jo intervened.

“12.500 Dollars in a closed envelope. From the looks of it had been laying for a decade, at least. Maybe even longer.”

Jo’s confusion grew. Money? There was a dead homeless lying dead in their morgue who had money stored away? For what? Hard times? She almost snorted but braced herself.

“12.500 Dollars?” Abe repeated and blinked. Jo could see in his eyes recognition and something else. Fear. Trepidation. A distant yet painful recollection that suddenly came to the surface like a giant kraken extending his long arms from a deep, dark ocean of suppressed memories. “That makes twenty-five soldiers.” His voice was raspy and almost inaudible. Jo’s heart almost broke at the vulnerability the old man radiated in this very moment as he sank back on the chair . “Wha… what was the man’s name again? Uhm, the dead man?” He asked and Jo and Hanson looked at each other, confused.

“T.B. Walner,” Hanson answered, his own voice now more careful, less intimidating. There was something going on here and Jo had the feeling there was more behind the story. “His file says he was stationed in Vietnam from ’70 till late ’72. Honorable discharge from duty in ’73. Got shot in the leg while he was trying to save his comrades during an ambush,” Hanson repeated the information they had gotten from the vic’s file earlier. “He was in the system for a few years afterwards. Had some mini-jobs and two or three registered addresses but nothing since the late 90s. He must’ve been living on the streets since then.” He stopped and threw Jo a glance, prompting her to continue as he seemed uncomfortable with the old man’s reaction.

“Abe?” Jo asked carefully and when the addressed didn’t look up she kneeled down in front of him. “Abe, do you know who he is? Do you have an idea what the money means? What all of this means?”

Instead of replying Abe looked over her shoulder at the screen in the back and shuddered almost invisibly. “It’s been 40 years.” His voice sounded scratchy and disbelieving. He looked back at his fingers, staring at them as if seeing them for the first time. His hat now lay on his lap, forgotten. “I’m an old man, aren’t I?”

He looked at her with a sad look full of regret and Jo was about to shake the old man to get him back to his senses when he sighed. “T.B. Walner was a murderer and a coward. He killed 25 of his own comrades in Vietnam to save his own neck. If my name was on the list… I’m very glad to be alive then.”

For a moment neither of them spoke.

“You know him?” Jo looked back at the screen, her interest suddenly spiked as she saw that Screen-Henry had left his sitting position and was now standing a few feet away from the attacker. In the background she could see Lucas, eyes wide open and obviously talking. That was a good thing, she guessed, and it meant that Lucas’s injury was less threatening as it had looked. Nevertheless she didn’t like the way the crazy man was swaying on his feet and Henry getting close to him. Too close. The suspense of the digital pictures – soundless yet alarmingly tense – was almost palpable.

Anxiously she got up, turned towards the screen and felt her stomach clench painfully as she watched Henry approach the crazy, scalpel wielding psychopath.

“No, Henry!” She wanted to yell at him but it came out as a mere whisper. Why couldn’t he just stay the hell out of the way? Just sit tight and try to be as invisible as possible? Why did he have to get up?

But Jo knew Henry. She didn’t hear the scene but the action spoke in itself. So when the shabby figure all but fell into Henry’s arms, then pushed him away and tumbled into the other direction she watched in terror as Henry’s steps faltered and he fell backwards out of the camera’s view. Lucas was moving quickly, scrambling shakily towards his boss. She could see Henry’s legs stretched out on the side of the screen but anything above his knees was out of view. She could see half of Lucas kneeling next to him and pressing down on something. From the angle it was somewhere at Henry’s stomach.

Abe emitted a stifled groan next to her and she met his eyes. Things had just gotten from worse to unthinkable.

TBC


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okay, keep the following in mind: I'm not a medic, neither a Vietnam War expert. I'm not even an author. Just someone who seems to have too much time on her hands. Which... I don't. So forgive me when it takes another month to get the next and probably last chapter going.  
> Further notes see part 1)

Chapter 4

Somehow it felt like time was slowing down, intensifying the feeling that the she was losing the reins. Inch by inch they were slipping through her fingers and she had to remind herself that she was a cop, had to keep cool and should definitely not run around like a beheaded chicken about to be stooped into boiling water. She was in a bullpen, familiar grounds. That was helping. There was Hanson next to her… already giving instruction that they needed entry to the morgue NOW and the paramedics on stand-by.

“Jo, get him out of there,” Abe pleaded next to her and she looked back at the old man who was looking on the verge collapsing.

“Abe, sit down!” She commanded and led him back to the chair where he sank down shakily. “What do you know? Talk to me!”

She knew she sounded harsher than intended and felt bad about it but she would apologize later.

“I think I know who the man is,” Abe said without taking his eyes off the screen.

Jo knew what he was looking at. And as long as there was something to look at they were safe. As long as he was down there in the morgue, bleeding and suffering, _he_ was safe. As long as he kept breathing Henry would be okay. The thought hurt like nothing else and she swallowed the bile that was threatening to embarrass her to no end.

“Go on!” she demanded in a calm voice and was content to see Abe’s eyes concentrate on her.

“His name is John… John something… wait… “ He closed his eyes, squeezed them shut and she could see the wheels in his head turning, remembering. “John Carson … Carlson. Something like that. I’m not sure.”

“Carson,” Hanson suddenly stood next to them with Lieutenant Reece in tow. The dark-skinned woman looked at the screen, her expression carefully masked. “John Carson.” Hanson repeated with a look at the notebook in his hands. “The name is on the list. But it’s crossed out. What does that mean?”

Hanson handed over the small item when Abe threw a questioning glance at it. “May I?” He asked and cradled it for a moment, wiping his fingers over the leathery binding before opening. His eyes scurried over neatly written pages. Dozens of them. The book was almost filled up to the last pages where names were written down in large letters, about 30, Jo guessed, with a dozen or so crossed out and barely readable. Five or six names on each page.

“The book was Teddy’s. Everyone used to make fun of it, that it was stupid to write a diary under these circumstances but he kept doing it.”

“Teddy?” Lieutentant Reece mouthed without uttering a sound and Jo answered in a calm tone.

“Theodor Billy Walner. Our vic.”

“What about the names, Abe? Why is your name on it?”

The old man harrumphed and visibly tried to brace himself. “The names, the crossed out ones, they’re dead. We… thought they were killed by the Viet Cong.” His gaze went far away, somewhere above Jo’s right shoulder as he continued. “There was this rumor in ‘Nam, you know. Every soldier knew about it and we were making fun about it. It was ridiculous. ”

“Rumor? What rumor?” Jo prompted when Abe’s voice drifted off.

“That one dead American was worth 500 American Dollars,” he answered steadily, looking at Jo. “They told us it was just a tactical way to demoralize us. I guess we were wrong to suspect it was a myth.”

“What has this got to do with our morgue?” Hanson questioned, looking puzzled for a moment before his forehead creased, eyebrows touching. “Are you… are trying to tell us, someone killed his own comrades in the middle of a war for money?”

“Not someone but Teddy!” Abe sighed. “He was a strange guy. Very reserved and … I don’t know … off. Never talked much. We always thought he was just shy but then…” He sat up a little straighter and taking another look at the screen (Henrys legs were still there, Lucas still bent over him) he took a deep breath, his voice getting stronger but more tired at the same time. “Then some men wound up dead. There was no investigation. It was the middle of ‘Nam for God’s sake. But men kept dying and of course the _Charlies *1)_… The Viet Cong I mean were blamed. It was their specialty… staying hidden. Killing us and thereby never been seen. But… we all suspected something but no one ever dared voicing the accusation.”

“TB Walner killed his own comrades, soldiers. And he was being paid for it,” Jo summed up, careful and disbelieving simultaneously. “By whom? The Viet Cong?”

“I don’t know. We never had any proof. Just talk. Until now.” Unconsciously the grip of his fingers around the notebook hardened and Abe looked down on it, studying every single name, crossed out or not. For a few seconds he stared at his own name. “This is really hard. I usually… don’t talk about it.”

“It’s okay Abe. Just try to remember. What about John Carson? Why is he crossed out when he is obviously down in the morgue?”

It took Abe a few seconds to form the words and when he did he sounded hoarse. Like his body tried to sabotage the spoken truth. “John Carson was shot in the head. We found him on one of our morning routes. We thought he was dead, called in the medics and … went on. It was… it wasn’t a nice view. And then, a few hours later, Peter stepped on a landmine. There was nothing left of him and we knew we had lost two good men within 12 hours. Later we found out that John had been alive when the medics arrived but after that… never heard of him again. I didn’t know he was alive at all.”

“Okay,” Hanson summed up. “We have a dead serial killer on the table, killed by one of his almost-victims. A serial killer who got paid to kill his own men and never spent the money. Why? Remorse?”

Jo slowly nodded. “Possibly.”

“So then why was he killed now?”

“Because John knew who had tried to kill him but had kept his demons at bay,” Abe replied, his eyes back on the screen, watching as the broken man stood in one corner of the room, swaying lightly and gesturing wildly at no one.

“He’s lost his mind then?” Reece spoke out loud what the others were thinking.

“You can’t keep up the illusion of normalcy forever when you carry around this kind of knowledge. Maybe medication kept him more or less from going mad over the years but sooner or later everyone breaks.” Abe sighed gravely. “It’s usually the dead ones who get the easy way out while the living ones have to suffer.”

The old man looked into her eyes and she had the impression he didn’t merely talk about John Carson.

 

oOoOo

 

Lucas Wahl was used to blood. He was used to a lot of things regarding the human body. Mutilation, disembowelment, ripped of arms, legs, heads. He had seen countless motorcycle accident victims, burn victims; rotten, bloated, mummified corpses. One time there was the case of a man whose skin of arm and shoulder had been ripped off by an accident in a large automobile factory. It was safe to say he was used to everything that related to bodily damage. Of course, he usually only got to see them after the person had died of its injuries and couldn’t complain. So when he pressed down on the hole that had been ripped in his boss’ torso and the man gave a pained scream he almost jumped up in fright and panic.

Almost.

He pressed down harder, feeling strangely dismayed by the way the blood was still warm on his skin. The flesh under his unrelenting fingers was twitching and moving, protesting against the additional pain that was being inflicted on it by the pressure. During his studies he had worked in several hospital units and the reason why he had eventually chosen a path as medical examiner came back to him with a vengeance.

“I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’m sorry…,“ he kept repeating as he watched his boss grit his teeth.

Cutting open someone who didn’t care anymore was much MUCH easier than trying to keep someone alive.

The puncture wound was small and just below Henry’s ribs on the right side. He had no idea how deep the wound was but he knew the efficiency of a scalpel’s blade. It cut through the flesh like it was butter and could do lots of damage no matter how small the entry wound. The deeper the wound, the higher the possibility of vital parts of the liver or other organs being damaged.

“Liver laceration, grade III, probably higher,” Henry pressed between clenched teeth. “Keep pressure on the wound. Right lungs could be affected. Not sure yet. It’s hard… to breath.”

“Then stop talking!” Lucas ordered, apologizing again for ordering his boss around. “Sorry, boss.”

“Stop apologizing!” Henry ordered back.

“Sorry,” he replied automatically and flinched when Henry tried to sit up straighter, lifting himself up with his hands pressed against the cold floor and thereby trying in vain to take pressure off his injured side. “I’m not used to my patients trying to defend themselves.”

“Well you can’t do much wrong when your patient is dead,” Henry dead-panned and Lucas swallowed, his mouth suddenly gone dry. “Sorry.”

“It’s okay, I’m…” Suddenly Henry’s eyes widened and a loud, echoing crash made Lucas swirl his head around in fright, expecting an attack. He had almost forgotten about the other man who was momentarily on a rampage through the morgue. The loud crash was the sound of another metal tray crashing against the doors on the other side of the room, far enough from their position near Henrys office that Lucas was more or less positive that the old man’s attention wasn’t momentarily on himself and Henry.

The old man started yelling incoherently, crying and begging, while holding his head. Another loud crash followed as he slipped on a piece of equipment and stumbled. His shoulder crashed against the cabinet near the entrance and the large furnishing shook for a moment before coming back to a halt.

Henry’s left hand grabbed his wrist, pressed his fingers in flesh in a weak attempt to remove his arms from pressing down on the wound. “Lucas! Get yourself in safety.”

“Safety?” He replied nonplussed. “It’s not like I can walk out of here, boss. And…”

“Get into my office, lock up the door! Hide! He’ll forget you’re here when he can’t see you.” Henry sounded anxious but resolute which made Lucas nervous. There was an urgency in his superior’s voice that made the hair in his neck rise.

“I have to keep pressure on…”

“No, you need to get yourself out the line of fire.”

“No, I’m not leaving you here. Not going to happen.” He was determined. Terribly afraid but also determined.

“All due respect for your self-abandonment but this is bordering on subordination.”

“Can’t see anyone disciplining me here,” Lucas retorted, surprised that his voice sounded much more steady and strong than he was feeling. Then, in a rush of adrenalin that had his head swimming, he added: “So shut up and let me safe your life.”

The expression in Henry’s face would have been funny if it hadn’t been for the small trace bloody bubbles that escaped with Henrys pained moan of exasperation.

“Oh God!” Lucas murmured and pressed down harder, ignoring the pounding in his head that had risen a notch or two.

 

oOoOo

  

“This is a terrible idea!” Jo repeated, looking sideways at Lieutenant Reece’s stony face while they were following Abe.  The old man’s step –  rather shaky when he had heaved himself off the chair he’d been sitting at for the last hour – were now  determinedly aiming towards the large door that lead into the basement. Somehow, the thought of using the elevator sent chills down Jo’s neck and it seemed like Abe felt the same way. “We have no idea how Carson might react. He might…”

“He might what? Attack our medical Examiners?”

“Well, yes!”

“Too late for that, Detective. We can’t afford to do nothing. And if there’s a chance of redirecting Carson’s anger towards someone or something else than two injured men … that’s our chance. Especially when that someone is behind bulletproof glass.”

“I don’t like it.”

“You don’t have to like it. Deal with it! Understood?”

“Yes Ma’am,” Jo replied, crestfallen. The Lieutenant nodded at her and Abe then turned towards Hanson who was holding the receiver of his phone into the air with his hand clamped over the mouthpiece. “The CDC wants an update,” he informed her, holding out the device for her to take it.

Jo turned towards Abe who was watching her with an expression she couldn’t quite decipher.

“It’s going to be fine,” the old man assured, giving her a crooked smile. “Henry is tough.”

“What if not?” She lowered her voice, making sure no one was around to hear them. “What if he dies and goes poof on camera? Not to forget Lucas.”

Abe did not reply, instead opened the heavy door and made his way down the stairs. Jo close on his heels.

The oh-so-helpful IT guy had promised them entry to the morgue in 20 minutes – give or take. Which, Jo thought, was about two hours too late. They couldn’t afford to wait, she knew that. They had to act. Even if it was to just bridge the gap of 20 minutes. But she also knew that whatever they did was an equation with enough variables to solve the Big Bang Theory. They reached the bottom landing and Abe had his hands on the handle, about to open the door and step into sight of the morgue.

“Abraham… wait!”

“He will be fine. _They_ will be.”

“You don’t know that.”

“No, I don’t but there isn’t much I can do about that, my dear.” He opened the door and went through.

 

oOoOo

  

The heavy door behind him swung back slowly with a swooshing sound but without the residing click that indicated that the door had closed. Abe stood for a moment, orienting himself. He’d been here before once or twice and he knew the layout. The entry to the morgue was about 10 feet to his left and with the whole front being glass he had a full view to the inside. Having the scene on a wide screen was bad enough but now it seemed even worse.

It was loud, though slightly muffled. The banging, the clashing, the screaming. Pained sounds of a hurt animal. And they didn’t come from either Lucas or his father. They came from John.

The old man - for a second Abe stumbled over the fact that he considered his old comrade an old man; he couldn’t actually be much older than himself – was yelling at the wall. Only God knew what it was he saw there but it must’ve been bad.

“John!” Abe begun but his voice was dismayingly small. “John!” He said again, firmer now and stepped closer to the glass front. The moment his counterpart saw him he reacted badly enough that Abe almost jumped.

“NO! Go away! Leave me alone!” Some mumbled gibberish, then, “It’s all your fault!”

John grabbed the side of a cupboard and pulled, as if trying to barricade himself from the imagined ghosts of the past. “No! Go away!”

Abe finally had the strength to look further into the room which looked like a battlefield of scattered glittering equipment. The white sheet which had covered the body of Walner had fallen and lay entangled on the floor. Back against the wall near his father’s office Henry and Lucas were still sitting on the floor. Lucas still bent over his father’s torso, pressing down on it. Hidden on the screen so far it was now apparent that John had indeed injured his father. His right side was covered in blood. Not bad enough that he was in immediate danger of blood-loss but bad enough that Abe could see that it could mean anything or nothing.

But his father _was_   alive. That was all that counted for now. And for the first time in life Abraham feared – actually feared – the implications of his only relative’s imminent death. And he wished he could talk to him. Make him understand. Abe had not lied when he’d told Jo he didn’t know whether Henry was aware of the fact that the river was frozen. It wasn’t like they planned ahead the numerous deaths his father encountered to speculate about possible outcome.

Maybe Abe should start doing just that. Make his father see that his death _could_   have consequences that didn’t involve reports for improper public nakedness. Maybe he’d get one of those nifty chalkboards where he could write down important notes like

_Pay electricity bill._

_Pick up stuff from dry cleaning_

_Don’t die - Lake is frozen_

_Love, Abe_

Abe could feel a hysteric bubble of laughter rise up in his throat and his eyes met with his father’s.

_Abraham_ , Henry’s lips formed silently and from the distance Abe could see blood dripping over his lips. So, the injury was not a mere flesh wound.

That was bad. Really bad.

Lucas looked up as well, his face a grimace of both consternation and tenacity. He nodded barely perceptible and Abe wasn’t quite sure what the small movement meant. A greeting? A “things are going to be fine”? A promise?

Abe looked back to John who was stumbling, holding himself upright against the wall like a drunken seaman trying to find his way home. He was trembling, shaking with an intensity that Abe wondered how he could be possibly standing at all. And he was distancing himself from the front wall, thereby getting closer to Henry and Lucas, who were eyeing him fearfully. Abe could see the way Lucas’s eyes wandered to the office door and he knew the young man was torn between staying with his fallen boss and getting himself to safety. But he stayed, stubbornly, while John was getting closer to them, unpredictably staggering in their direction.

Abe stepped closer and pounded against the window panes that didn’t budge a bit.

“No, John. Come here, talk to me.”

The other man didn’t even to hear him, caught in his delusion, the scalpel still clutched in his fingers. It did _not_   glint anymore, being crusted with dried blood. Abe suppressed the need to vomit and yelled once more “John, dammit!” His yell left behind a film of condensed breath on the glass.

Less than four feet were left between John and the two men on the floor.

“Attention, soldier!” Abe hollered out of reflex and to his astonishment John stood still, his body tensing under an automatic reaction born out the instinct for survival.

Critical seconds passed and Abe feared the peaceful moment would break into pieces like a firecracker at New Year’s Eve.

Lucas cowered over Henry, staring at their attacker with a defiant expression. Now it was his turn to keep a protective stance, while Abe held his breath, waiting for another unexpected turn of events. Nothing happened for a few more seconds until John slowly turned his head, looking at Abe with eyes as round as saucers. His lips were trembling, the sharp weapon between his fingers twitching unconsciously.

“I know you…You are on the list?” John asked in an awed tone and it was more a statement than a question. His voice was muffled and Abe more read from his former comrade’s lips than actually heard it. “You...” John’s face fell, terrified and close to tears. “You are one of them.” The last words merely whispered. But Abe didn’t have to hear the words to know what he was talking about.

“Yes, yes I am.” Abe swallowed, not sure whether he was talking to stall time or because he wanted to know more. Wanted to _understand_. “Yes, it’s me.. uhm... Abe. Abe Morgan. Do you…” He was aware of the hammering of his heart, the perspiration on his hairline. “You remember me.” It wasn’t a question, more a statement, but John answered anyway.

“Abe?” John seemed to shrink and his energy poured out of him like the light out of a dying supernova. “Am I… dead?”

Abe’s mouth went dry. He was too old for this kind of drama.

“No, John, you’re not dead. _We_  are not dead. You are alive. Don’t you see? Look around.”

For a moment John’s fervor wavered in synch with his physical rush before he braced himself.

“He killed me.” His eyes wandered to the dead body who wasn’t even provided with the dignity of a sheet covering his cooling remains. “He shot me. Straight in the head.” He paused and Abe didn’t dare breathing, afraid of losing his attention. “Said he was doing what was best for me and that… we couldn’t go on like this.”

“I know…” Abe answered and felt his father’s eyes on himself. “Those days… they were bad. I remember.”

“Bad?” John huffed disbelievingly. “Bad was my mum’s turkey.” He laughed, hysterically.

“What happened, John.” Abe stressed. “What happened before he shot you?”

Behind the curtain of stringy hair John’s eyes seemed to clear up a little.

“Teddy said it was for the best. That he was helping us to get out of here. He said, he…” Another raspy laughter. “…wanted to _save_ us.”

Somehow, the situation was even made worse when Abe realized that it all made sense. Sense in a way that only those could understand who had gone through the hell Vietnam had been. All those weeks and months… retrospectively they had been nothing more than a constant situation of impending death. Death by an ambush, death by a stray bullet, death by a land mine, death by random machete. Abe’s mind was flooded with memories of himself feeling jealous of his dead comrades who had left him and the other survivors behind. They had found a way to escape the constant misery. It was an excruciatingly painful memory that was only being topped by the feeling of guilt when he had come home, alive and physically unharmed.

The only reason he hadn’t succumbed to his dark thoughts was sitting behind this transparent wall, bleeding all over and unaware of the actual danger beyond dying.

“Nothing can hurt you and Teddy is dead. Look at him. He’s the dead one now. John, you are alive. You are safe now and you are _alive_.”

John slowly turned his head to look at the dead man but there was no recognition in his eyes. Just confusion.

“No…” Slowly he shook his head. “No. I’m not. They wouldn’t be here if I were.”

“Who? Who is here?”

“The list, don’t you see? They want the list. They want their names back. And their lives. Their chance that was wasted to him.” John gestured at Teddy. “I have to give it to them.”

Abe swallowed. “You just did, John.”

Behind him Abe could hear movement, the slow grinding sound of the heavy door being opened and he was about to panic. Not now, he was this close to getting to John but then he realized the arriving of the cavalry could only mean one thing.

It was hard to refrain from ripping the door open and rush inside. So, slowly, he reached out his hand and put it against the bar to open it. He pushed softly, then a little harder and the moment the door opened inwardly there an almost inaudible whizzing sound.

He pushed harder then heard Jo’s voice behind. “Abe, wait!”

He kept walking, almost creeping and pushed the door more open, inch by inch.

“You did it John. The truth is what gives them rest now. Us, you and me. Please, just put the scalpel down and we can talk. Tell me more about it. We have the list. We now have all the names. We even have the money. It’s all there…” Abe’s words slurred, his tongue stumbling over the need to keep talking while his thoughts wandered to count his options as well as his distance to John. But who was he kidding. He was an old man. It wasn’t like he could jump over those tables and tackle John before the other man could reach Lucas and his father. All he had was words. And he intended to use them with all his might, thank you very much.

“Abraham,” his father’s voice sounded weak yet commanding but he ignored it.

“Please, John. Don’t hurt them anymore.”

John started moaning, his left hand finding the side of his head. The hand with the bloody scalpel dangerously close to Lucas. Then he stumbled sideways, almost falling over Henry’s outstretched legs and his feet got caught in the fallen sheet. Roaring in anger he fell down hard.

Lucas shrieked, Henry cried out and the situation got faster out of control than Abe could get his legs to move. Scrambling back on his knees John started hissing something unintelligible, his attention now on the two helpless men next to him.

Abe’s fear made his stomach cramp. “NO!” Then his ear drums exploded simultaneously with his cry of anguish as next to him a gun was cocked and released.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *1) Viet Cong was commonly shortened to VC, which in the NATO phonetic alphabet is pronounced “Victor-Charlie”, which gave rise to the further shortened, “Charlie” designation (Source: http://www.todayifoundout.com/index.php/2013/04/why-the-viet-cong-were-called-charlie-during-the-vietnam-war/)


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Here we are. I do have plans for another part but as usual, it might take a while. Remaining mistakes are mine, all mine.
> 
> Further notes see part 1.

 

Chapter 5

Sunday, 4:35pm

There was one thing Lucas Wahl had always cherished in his profession besides getting his regular pay check, interesting work days and time to check his social media channels every once in a while. It was the stories. Stories of people and their fates, good and bad, entanglement and resolution. It was life after all that created the most interesting drafts.

To sum it up, there was a lot of inspiration in the job he was doing.

Based on today’s events he could write ten screenplays and it would never get boring. Though he had to admit, living the screen play was much harder than writing it.

He heard them talking without wasting much effort of understanding. Could only see the knife glinting in the man’s hand out of the corner of his eyes. He had seen enough to know that they were in deep trouble, could hear the madness in every syllable. In a strangely detached way he realized Abraham was there, standing behind the glass without quite understanding what the old man was doing here or why he was talking to the maniac. Lucas’ world consisted of pain. His very own as well as Henry’s. And blood. His hands were covered in it. Warm and sticky and smelling metallic, mixed with the sour odor of human fear that made him want to gag. How much of his reaction was the result of his injured head he wasn’t sure.

When the door opened he didn’t even notice. And when Abe entered the morgue his mind had gone numb with the need to detach himself from the situation.

A loud shot exploded in the room and his already aching head swam. Stars were dancing in front of his eyes, blurring his view and it was half shock, half exhaustion that made him lean over Henrys body, expecting a sharp knife between his ribs any second.

His body was tense, the grip of his fingers painfully wrapped in the folds of Henry’s button-down and he knew that yes… he was going to die. Now! Like a hero. Like the shining knight about to save the innocent… Anytime… now.

The shot was still ringing in ears like the silver bells on Santa’s sleigh when Lucas realized that he was NOT dead. There was no knife in his back and over the static noise in his head he could hear the rasping sound of Henry’s labored breathing. Then the unexpected sound of loud voices, yelled orders and the stomping of boots on the floor. Equipment clattered where it was accidently kicked across the room and then all of a sudden someone was gripping his shoulders to get him into an upright position.

“Lucas!”

He could hear a muffled voice right next to him and when he turned his head sluggishly he realized Jo was kneeling next to him, holding his head between her hands, her eyes trying to capture his attention. “I have to…” he began and leaned back over Henry, trying to resume his position. His hands were shaking hard enough that he had problems finding the right spot on Henry’s body.

“Lucas, stop! It’s okay. We’ll take care of him. Look at me!” She pulled his shoulders backwards - careful but insisting – and he neither had the will nor the strength to fight any longer.

His eyes fell on John and he realized with a sudden surge of hysteria that he was on the verge of laughing about the fact that the dead man didn’t have much distance to bridge to get where he belonged - _on_ his table not _below_ it.

“He’s dead.” He said, flabbergasted, and scrambled a few feet backwards until he hit the door to Henry’s office. “You shot him.”

“I did,” she confirmed, eyes wide and breathing hard as if she’d run. “I…”

“Hey, let me…let me go!” A loud frantic voice came from the door and Lucas looked up to see Abe fighting his way past two police officers who were trying to keep him out of the morgue.

“Let him through!” Jo ordered over the overall hubbub and Abe came closer, staggering slightly before kneeling down on the other side of Henry. He leaned down, took Henry’s face between his hands and waited for their eyes to meet. Then his hoarse voice was growling: “Don’t you leave me, Dad!” It was a strained whisper yet loud enough that Lucas could hear him over the general noise. “Swimming is not an option right now, you hear me?” He waited to get a reaction. “Do you understand?” Henry looked like he had trouble focusing and his eyes constantly slid to the sides but after a few seconds he nodded.

The old man groaned when his eyes fell on the bloodied rags of Henry’s clothes, his fingers reaching out over the wound to replace Lucas’ hands.

Lucas shook his head slightly, wondering whether his hearing was impaired as a result of the gun shot and he turned towards Jo. “What did he just say?” he squeaked, looked at Abe with a frown and groaned when the pain in his head made his vision blur.

“You hit your head pretty bad, Lucas,” Jo merely said and there was something in her voice Lucas was unable to fathom. “The medics should be here soon. Relax. You’re going to be fine.”

But her voice started to become a distant nuisance and Lucas waved his hand uncoordinatedly to let her know that he _was_ fine. And his hearing was just fine as well, thank you very much. And obviously, there was a reason why Abe had just called a man half his age ‘Dad’. A very good reason, Lucas was sure. And he, Lucas Wahl, would find that reason. Right after having a good night’s sleep and several dozen of Tylenol.

 

oOoOo

 

Emitting a rather un-manly whimper Lucas’ eyes rolled back in his head and he slumped to the side, right into Jo’s arms. She lowered him to the ground, careful not to jostle his head too much and put her fingers on his neck. A fast but steady pulse was throbbing underneath his cold skin and she quickly took off her own blazer to cover him.

“He’s going into shock,” she mumbled and looked back to the door, hoping with all her heart to see the medics come running who had stood on call. When she saw none yet.

_Where the hell are they?_ _Weren’t they supposed to be on stand by?_

_S_ he directed her attention to Henry and Abe. “He’s going to be fine,” Abe answered the question she hadn’t asked yet but Jo could see from the wide-eyed stare that he said it merely to convince himself. “Dad…”

Alarmed, Jo touched the old man’s shoulder. “Abe…”

The old man, realizing his mistake, nodded distractedly. “He’s… he’s going to be alright.” With an almost tender care he peeled aside the clothes to reveal the sodden area of Henry’s skin where still fresh blood was coming out of a surprisingly small wound in a noticeable pulsing rhythm.

It really didn’t look good and Jo knew that Abe knew that as well. Henry’s eyes were fluttering and Jo winced when Abe all but yelled at him to stay awake. Henry smiled weakly and whispered something she couldn’t hear before he coughed weakly. In a slow trickle pink-colored spit ran over his lips and everything inside of her yearned to touch him, wipe the blood of his chin and tell him that she was here – at his side. But it was Abe who mirrored her thoughts and did exactly that. She swallowed, not daring to interfere as the situation felt too intimate. She bowed her head, trying to look at anything but the two men. Awkwardly, she padded Lucas head, took his pulse once more until a shudder went through her when she felt Henry’s eyes on herself, staring intently now.

“Hey Jo, sorry for the inconvenience,” He rasped and managed a lopsided smile. His breathing sounded wrong and an almost inaudible wheezing accompanied the heaving of his chest. “I expect you’re impatiently waiting for my autopsy results.” He glanced at their murder victim who was still lying on the table. Someone had used the fallen sheet to cover him up again. “We’ve solved the case. He was a killer and a maniac.”

“And he was killed by a killer and a maniac,” Abe added, his voice hollow.

“Thanks for clearing that up for me,” Jo said. “Now shut up and let the medics stitch you up.” She was about to turn towards one of the medics, who were finally coming towards them to offer some quick information about the injured. One of the young men already kneeled down next to the Lucas and started performing triage on him.

“No!”

“Henry, what…” Jo began but Henry, albeit holding her by the sleeve, wasn’t looking at her.

“He was _not_ killed by a killer or maniac,” He insisted, staring intently at his son and enunciating every single word as articulated as possible. “He was killed by a man whose life wasn’t kind enough to heal his wounds in time.” She saw Abe blink and knew that the two men had changed more than the words spoken out loud. “This is not your fault, Abraham. Neither it’s his.” Henry nodded slowly towards the dead man lying on the floor next to them, already forgotten and cast aside.

No medic was rushing towards him. No loved ones making sure that he was getting all the care he deserved. Henry turned his head and directly looked into her eyes. They were wide open and clear. His skin looked waxen and a few strands of hair were plastered to his forehead where beads of sweat were forming small puddles above his eyebrow. “Make sure my old man here knows that, okay?”

“I will.” She nodded, feeling strangely panicky as his words touched too close to the home of the famous-last-words-category. Her own eyes were starting to feel suspiciously gritty. “I promise. Now for the love of _God_ let these nice men with the bandages and the happy pills do their job, okay?” She leaned closer, lowering her voice. “And don’t you dare dying. I’d be very unhappy. Just thinking about all the paperwork I’d have to go through…” her voice trailed off and she managed a strained smile. “Understood?”

Henry managed another grim nod and she could see that his consciousness was slipping. Keen on getting out of the way for people properly schooled to make him better she willed her body to move. She helped Abe get up as well while exchanging a glance with Hanson, who all of a sudden stood next to her. She almost flinched at his sudden appearance but then offered him a thankful smile. “Let’s get out of the way. They need some room.” The medics who were bustling quickly and efficiently, putting sterile gauze on wounds, starting I.V.s, hooking both men up to several monitors and adjusting an oxygen mask in Henry’s case.

It all looked and felt like it wasn’t really happening. There was a short moment of uncomfortable buzzing in her ears from the sudden rush of blood in her head and it dulled the noise around her. Her grip on Abe’s elbow strengthened when she felt him sway and she wasn’t quite sure who was supporting who. It was probably a combination of either.

“Are you okay?”

Abe, looking worn and pale, nodded and took a deep breath. Nervously he regarded the camera above the entry which made Jo realize that they weren’t out of the woods yet. _Henry_ wasn’t.

Because if he were she wouldn’t have to worry about vanishing bodies on camera, about startled medical personal and police staff. About an outbreak of panic and witch-hunting after the video was “accidently” uploaded on _youtube_ for the whole world to see. About saving Henry from a never-ending death under a thick blanket of frozen water and picking up the pieces of his mental health. No one did survive this kind of trauma unscathed. Whether his heart was beating without interruption or not.

_What the hell_ , she realized. _I need a freaking handbook._

Which would be the first she thing she requested as soon as Henry was responsive. A To-Do-List of things to arrange and people to call if “something” happened. A flowchart of YES’s and NO’s to look at and not lose your mind in the process. How did Abe stand it? The constant worries, the constant fear of revealing to the world who or what his father really was? How did Henry manage to get this far in the first place when dying for him was about as spectacular as the Sunday Blockbuster on TV for any common New Yorker? And how the hell was it reasonable to worry so much about a man who couldn’t even die in the first place?

As soon as he was better she’d ask every question she could think of, screw her fear of details that she wasn’t sure she could handle. She had to know. Wanted to know everything.

She felt close to hyperventilating and it was only when she felt Abe’s hands slip under her fingers to keep them from trembling she forced her eyes close and willed her body to relax. She opened them up again, staring at the flurry of excitement in the morgue. Too many people, too much blood. Too many witnesses.

“As soon as this is over, we will talk,” Abe said calmly, his fingers increasing its pressure in a comforting way and she smiled at him, suddenly becoming aware that she wasn’t alone in this.

 

oOoOo

 

There was something disturbing about the way hospitals were made to function. An absurd approach to the effort of healing a human being by providing an environment that is as patient-unfriendly as possible. And that didn’t even include the poor excuse of food that he had been offered today.

A green, jellylike mass that tasted like preservatives dunked in artificial colors and mixed with the same quantitative amount of sugar. Henry had been quite surprised when the awful stuff had managed to stay in his stomach.

It wasn’t even like he had been hungry in the first place. But Abraham had managed to guilt him into eating. Obviously, he had used up all his energy in this task and had fallen into a slumber in a chair that looked more like a spinal torture device than a piece of furniture. His snores were rigorously drowned out by the constant noise around him. The ringing of phones, the squeaking of rubber soles on the vinyl flooring, the too loud paging of Doctor A who’s being needed on ward B or cleaning staff C expected to clean up some vomit in room D.

In addition, the street noise was leaking through the closed windows and the annoying beeping of the monitor was definitely not adjusted to a volume appropriate for a human ear in close vicinity.

Then there was the light. The lamps above him were screaming brightly. One of the bulbs flashed irregularly which was even perceptible behind closed eyelids.

And to make things worse the flimsy gown he was wearing was scratching in places he didn’t want to think about.

Where was a bridge to jump from when he needed one?

Henry sighed. A long and heartfelt sound that made Abe’s head jerk slightly but didn’t wake him up and Henry reverted to a quiet sulking. His son hadn’t slept much in the last two days and now that he had finally succumbed to sleep Henry had no intention to wake him up. For a few seconds he angrily fidgeted with various tubes and he felt his irritation rattle the bars of his imprisoned composure. God, this whole concept of wading through the consequences of life’s bumpy road was really starting to grate on his nerves. Appreciation for a clean and quick death had never been so dear.

 The door opened with a nasty sound that reminded him of the grinding of medal.

"Hey Henry…” Jo greeted but hushed quickly when Henry lifted his index finger to his lips. She looked into the corner of the room and nodded in understanding. “Sorry,” she mumbled and closed the door behind her with a soft click.

With more effort than he was willing to admit he tried to sit up a little straighter which was about as useless as painful and he groaned involuntarily. Maybe he shouldn’t have declined that last offer of pain killers but he severely disliked the feeling of wooziness that accompanied the sweet decrease of crippling pain.

Going through modern surgery was definitely not as bad as 200 years ago but that didn’t mean it was any more pleasant. He was pumped with chemical substances, several of his body parts were connected to technical devices that were blinking like a Christmas tree and still they hadn’t managed to successfully produce painkillers that actually made the specific pain go away without stuffing his head with cotton wool.

Sure, he was all for improving the medical condition of patients – critical or not – but did that have to mean sticking them with needles and make their life even more uncomfortable than it already was?

Yes, he was a terrible patient, he admitted it. And he was glad he was usually spared this kind of treatment. Death had to have its benefits every once in a while.

“So…”  -  “So…” They both started at the same time and Jo smiled, reluctantly. She shifted, left foot, right foot, then wiped her hands on her hips. Her face was working almost as intensely as her brain.

“You’re looking better.”

“Compared to what exactly?” He smirked, inwardly grinning like an idiot out of poor joy of seeing someone who did not enter to clean him, feed him or otherwise humiliate him.

“Uhm… compared to when you were bleeding to death on the floor in your office.”

“Oh, Yes. I admit, that was rather inconvenient.”

A pregnant silence settled beside them only accompanied by Abe’s soft snores and the steady beating of the heart monitor.

“And… how’s Abe?”

“Full of guilt.”

She frowned. “He shouldn’t be.”

“That’s exactly what I told him, believe me. Unfortunately, the wise words of his old man aren’t sufficient to wipe off something as deeply rooted as the guilt of a survivor.” Abe made a soft rattling sound, jumped a little bit in his seat, then slept on. “John Carson…” Henry begun and thought for a moment, thinking back to the disturbed man he had become acquainted with.”… was a victim of the circumstances, haunted by demons he didn’t evoke. Sometimes these things just happen.” Henry looked at his son fondly and a sad smile played around his lips. “I can see a lot of chess games in the future.”

“Huh?” Jo’s face scrunched up in confusion.

“Never mind. And… thank you,” He said, his attention back to Jo.

“What for?”

“For taking care of him.”

“He was worried.”

“I can imagine.”

“No,” she answered promptly, shaking her head and Henry frowned at the unusual display of nervous irritation that was definitely not a characteristic trait of Jo’s. “I don’t think you can.” He waited patiently for her to go on and wasn’t disappointed. “You almost _died_.” She held up her hand to stop him from giving an inappropriate answer as she could see him beginning to reply in a discarding manner. “You almost died with a whole mountain of consequences to follow. I know this is as close as you can get to the real thing but believe me when I say it wasn’t easy to deal with.”

Henry sighed and shot his eyes for a moment, dragging his heavy arms from the bed covers to rub his aching forehead.

“Are you in pain?”

“No,” he lied and she huffed in a half amused, half bitter way. “I’ll survive.”

“That doesn’t count. Not this time,” She berated him and came closer, reached nervously for the blanket and let her fingers dance over the clean sheets like she didn’t exactly know what to do with them.

“Well rationally speaking…”

“Shut up!”

He cringed and muttered softly “Why does everybody keep thinking they can order me to be quiet just because I have an extra hole in my body?”

She threw him a scolding look. “Because you’re terribly annoying when you insist on being immortal.”

“But I am,” He replied calmly.

“Yes Henry.” She sighed and leaned closer. “Maybe you can’t die. But that doesn’t mean you’re invulnerable.” She let her words sink in for a moment. “Maybe, your usual deaths…” She snorted and muttered something like ‘ _I can’t believe I’m saying this’ b_ efore going on: “…your usual dying incidents or whatever have less more impact on you and Abe than the loss of your shawl and in worst case a ticket for indecent exposure in public but I’m new to this. And I’m a little… over my head here, okay? So stop pretending this is nothing. This was close, Henry.” Her voice had taken on an angry vibrancy and she had to visibly get a grip on herself before straightening up and trying to find her usual demeanor.

 

“I get the succinct impression you’re angry with me, Jo.”

 “Yes… no.” She deflated visibly and now it was her turn to rub her forehead. “Maybe… a little.”

 “That’s unfortunate. I’m sorry I’ve put you through so much worries.”

 "It’s not your fault, Henry.” Chest heaving, she took a deep breath and looked like she worked up the courage to say the following words. “I wasn’t ready for all of this. But I am, now.”

“Ready for that?”

“Everything. Every bloody detail. I need to understand what’s happening. What happens when you die? How often did you die? I mean, what happens when you… I don’t know… lose your head? Have you ever lost your head?” Her eyes were big as saucers. “Have you ever drowned and came back in the same spot? Do you vanish when you drown and come back in the very spot? How much time passes between vanishing and coming back? Can you get sick? Do you just kill yourself when you suddenly have cancer and do you come back without it or... what happens when you cut your hair, then die. Does your hair come back with you?”  She stopped, looking embarrassed and shrugged her shoulder. “I have a list, you know?

“A list?” He couldn’t help it. He smirked.

“Yes, a list. With many additional Post-it’s. I can’t find my fridge anymore.“

“You’ve given this whole ordeal a lot of thoughts,” He stated, not sounding overly surprised.

“Of course I have, Henry. How could I not?”

They stared at each other for a few seconds before the steady beating of the heart monitor made them aware of their surroundings. Abe’s snores had stopped and the old man, albeit having woken up, sat unmoving in his chair, with a varying expression of feeling out of place, amusement and a profound ease that made Henry sad for so many reasons.

“Sorry, we didn’t mean to wake you,” Jo apologized and Henry found the way her cheeks reddened terribly fascinating.

“No, I’m sorry for intruding,” Abe said and heaved himself out of the chair with a groan. “I wanted to get some coffee anyway. And maybe a new spine.” His stretching caused some popping sounds that made Jo grimace in sympathy. “You want me to bring you something?”

They declined with shaking heads and watched Abe leave the room, not without noticing the old man’s wide grin.

“I guess… I’ll just leave now, too.” Awkwardly her hand pointed over her shoulder towards the door and Henry couldn’t help himself: He reached for her.

“Jo, wait.”

“What?” Her anger, as he knew from experience, was her way of concealing her true feelings. What those true feelings were, though, was still a little foggy.

“We will talk. As soon as I’m released. I promise.” He gave her a smile and hoped it didn’t look as shaky as he felt. “Bring your Post-it’s.”

“Oh, okay.”

She muttered something about ‘ _getting a new binder_ ’ and quickly left Henry’s private room. By the time she was gone Henry had the queer feeling that this situation had ended more unpleasant than it should have and he sighed warily. He was trembling a little and wondered whether he maybe was getting sick. A knot in his stomach seemed to tighten and his fingers started shaking. Small tremors worked their way up his body and his headache seemed to get a little worse. The feeling only receded after he forcefully took a deep breath, held it and blew it out slowly. He was NOT going to panic now. He could trust Jo and she was right, of course. Now was the time to open up and introduce another person into the peculiar life of Henry Morgan. Have another confidant he could talk to. And if it had to be someone it felt right to chose Jo.

It felt good.

Again, there was a knock on the door and assuming it was Jo who had come back he called out: “Come in.”

Unfortunately, it was not Jo. With a huge smile on his face Lucas Wahl sneaked in. He held a few sheets of paper in his hand and presented them in a ‘Tadaaa’-gesture.

“As good as new and good to go, Doc,” He informed Henry with a bright smile. “I just… you know… wanted to see how you were doing. Me having saved your life and all that. I kinda feel responsible for you now. Isn’t there some weird Chinese rule that if you save a life you own it?”

“Mister Wahl… Lucas. It’s nice to see you are on the mend.” Really, how hard could it be to say thank you to someone who had more or less saved his life? But there was something in Lucas that made Henry want to hit his head against a tiled wall. Repeatedly. “First, it’s a Japanese saying , not Chinese, and second, it does not actually say “owning” but “being responsible”.”

“Really? Does that mean I’m now responsible for you?” The younger man frowned.

“No, I can assure you that by all means you are not responsible for me. Neither for my well-being, nor my other businesses.”

Lucas looked almost disappointed. “Good, that’s good.” He bit his lips. “Because I do have better things to do than saving your life every day.”

Henry eyebrows almost vanished under his hairline but he refrained from reacting to it. “I’m sure you are. So, how’s your head?”

“Hurting but still attached to my body. That’s good enough, I guess.”

The first time since he entered the room he looked around in wonder. “So, where’s… uhm… Mr. Morgan?”

“Getting coffee.”

The younger man nodded, pursed his lips and looked around, showing no indication of wanting to continue the small talk even though Henry could almost see the question mark taped to Lucas’ forehead. “Mr. Wahl. What is it exactly that you have on your mind? If it’s my deeply felt gratitude for keeping me alive you have every right to expect my thanks. You went far beyond your civil duty when you ignored my order to get to safety. So thank you, Mr. Wahl. There might be a hamper in your locker in a few days.”

Lucas’ face lit up and a significant blush crept over his skin. “That’s not… that’s not really…” He cleared his throat, obviously flustered. “Don’t mention it.”

“Is there anything else?”

“Uh, just… out of curiosity … is there any particular reason why your business partner and you…” A painful sense of foreboding claimed him and he knew he was just being betrayed by his own heart as it sped up . Loud and clear and obvious for anyone, especially with a medical background. “… you know… share your surname?” Lucas leaned his head to the side and squinted his eyes in the universal gesture of eager anticipation. His gaze met the monitor and his face spoke volumes.

“Nevermind. I’ll find my way out. See you in the morgue, Dr. Morgan.”

He was gone before Henry could think of a suitable reply and it was only when Abraham came back, steaming Styrofoam cup in his hands, that Henry came to the unpleasant conclusion that the real damage was only just beginning to show. **  
**


End file.
